


Props to the Winner

by Ulawan5



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation, Eye Trauma, Galra Arena, Galra Empire, Graphic Description, Human Trafficking, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Original Character Death(s), Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulawan5/pseuds/Ulawan5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes earning victory costs you an arm or a leg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Props to the Winner

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this is a bit unrealistic, it's been a while since I've written this kind of thing. I'm rusty but I tried.

 Shiro can barely hear the roar of the crowd over the one in his ears.

 His breath is too fast, he’s watching the stands helplessly as the opponent yanks his arms behind him. He swears he feels his shoulders pop something against the strain as the massive, three-fingered hands increase the pressure by the second. His knees are being pressed down into the ground, and the weight holding him is more than three times that of his own. He can’t move. He can’t retaliate.

 “Spectators!” the opponent yells, “Are you not here for blood?!” 

 The crowd screams in response, galra pounding against the rails of the arena.

 “Have you not been satiated? Do you not wish to see what you came for!?”

 They’re being overdramatic. This wasn’t the first time this happened: there was always some competitor who wanted glory with their win. They made a theatrical statement, and very often they failed. Only this time did the opponent understand the physics of holding someone like him down into defenselessness. 

 The crowd roars again, as the creature keeps Shiro’s arms together, while drawing a small implement. Shiro only sees it in his peripheral, but the shadow tells of a short, crude knife.The opponent is reveling in this. They assume that they’ve won.

 The blade sinks into the flesh of his right shoulder, jagged edges begetting more as they rip through muscle and tendon, rending nerves and shooting fire into his blood. The opponent saws back and forth on the anterior side of the joint, glee coming through in their actions. Blood streams down the front of his arm and drips to the ground at the angle change. It’s leaving him much faster than it should, in his opinion.

 He struggles, trying for his life not to scream against the new injury. That could only worsen the situation, possibly exponentially. This is so much worse than a dislocated joint, or whiplash, or anything else he’s dealt with in the past. He makes choked sounds that are drowned out by the ambient din, and allows himself to gasp and grit his teeth. 

 The opponent jerks his arms to the left, widening the gap, popping more things that aren’t meant to see the light of day. His breath hitches on his throat. They use their other two free hands to bask in the crowd’s praise. 

_ Okay, they’re definitely getting cocky; all you have to do is wait. _

 A meaty arm surrounds his shoulder, positioning the blade under the mauled joint. 

“Shall it come off?! Another arm to add to my collection?!” 

 The crowd’s bloodlust is matched by their cheering. 

 The knife rips through the nerves littering his underarm, and all feeling in it goes silent. Shiro’s blood chills. This is really, really not good. The cut edge comes alive with pain, and it clicks in his mind. 

 Shiro lets out a pained grunt. He allows his right arm goes slack, and he slouches the rest of his muscles. The opponent laughs from behind him.

 “Had enough, little challenger?” the voice booms into his ear.The hands allow the slack arm to fall, and Shiro takes his chance.

 When the pressure lets up, he twists away from the opponent, bolting away from the knife. He finds his footing, and steels himself for the uppercut of his life. His last fist collides with the alien’s massive, fatty throat, sending them tottering backwards and reaching for their neck with three hands. The last of their hands drops the jagged shank into the dust. 

 Shiro dives for it, tumbling on his good shoulder. Gripping the cloth-covered hilt, he staggers to standing several yards away. He stares at his -as yet- escaped death in the form of an angry, choking, hulking mass of extraterrestrial. Shiro slings his bum arm in the burlap shirt left over him, hopefully getting it enough out of the way to continue the fight.

 The opponent gains back their focus, shooting a furious glare to the human struggling to stay standing -not to mention conscious- as blood seeps even more into his clothing. The alien starts charging toward Shiro, tentacles flapping in the wind and fists curling in rage. Shiro doubles the pace to sprint back at them. He readies the knife, and springs into the air just seconds before collision.

 Shiro brings his fist down, and jabs it into an eye socket on the top of their head. He pulls away, desperately trying to keep the illegal weapon on his side, and slicing the eye open in the process. The opponent is sent into a fit as they clasp the damaged eye, just before Shiro flings all of his weight through his legs and into the abdomen of the recoiling alien.   
 They fall to the ground, thud softened by the sand but still squirming.

_ How do I end this?  _ he thinks to himself.

 Shiro flips the knife in his hand, and rushes forward, he has to win and fast. Their throat is unguarded once again - and he takes his chance.


End file.
